I felt a little sad on Sunday, the first day of November.  Nostalgic, because it was also the opening day of National Novel Writing Month.   

Last November, for the first time, I joined hundreds of thousands of aspiring novelists in that crazy, exhilarating NaNoWriMo  marathon.  I thought of it as an experiment—and as a way to stay busy while I awaited the publication of my first book, a music memoir, in January.  

On November 31, I  crossed the finish line with a 50,000+ word first draft of a novel, my very first.  A  mystery, with music themes.

I continued to work on the mystery this past year, in between promoting Accordion Dreams and working at my day job.  I revised and expanded.  Submitted chapters to my critique group.  Finally, just over a month ago, I sent the mystery to my agent, to see what she thought.  Did it have a future?

In a word:  No. 

My agent had a  few kind words to say about some features of the book.   But she saw nothing but problems with one key element:  The plot.  Too flimsy.   Vague and complicated, at the same time.  Not compelling enough to hold the interest of readers—or a potential publisher.

More revision—on this book, or anything similar—was not what my agent had in mind.  She put it bluntly:  this genre didn’t strike her as my forte.     She urged me to get back to that second nonfiction project I’d  mentioned to her a few years ago.     That book about my ethnic heritage.  My “dark Slovenian roots,” as she put it.  She recalled that it sounded promising.    

I allowed myself a day to feel a litte bit sorry for myself.  I had no regrets about the time spent on my now-retired novel,  since I’d enjoyed the process and learned so much.   But I felt sad to say good-bye to my characters.  I’d grown fond of them—and attached to the fictional world I’d created.  Writing fiction is like having your own private playground.  I had no idea how seductive it could be.

“Don’t Mourn, organize!”  I don’t recall who said that, but it seemed like good advice.   The next day, I re-organized my bookshelves and my computer files.  Set the fiction-writing books aside.  Pulled together all the material I’ve been reading about Slovenia and the Balkans,  a couple of bookshelves full.   Re-read the informal proposal I'd written a few years ago, along with the short pieces I'd already written.   Gathered together the scattered Internet sites I'd saved.  (I finally figured out how to create a “Bookmarks” folder.)

Only then did it hit me:  I've been working on this all along.  This is the mystery I wanted to write in the first place.  A real life mystery.   

So now I have started back into my Slovenian project in earnest.  Tangled roots.  Shame about an obscure little country most people can't find on a map.   Family secrets.  The mysterious death—and subsequent fall into obscurity—of my grandmother's cousin,  a Slovenian immigrant like my grandfather.  Except Louis Adamic was a famous writer and journalist in the 1930s and 1940s.  A leftist and an early multiculturalist.  The only writer I’ve found in the family tree.   

Even though I won’t be doing NaNoWriMo, I do plan to write every day—without the pressure of producing the daily 1667 words.   Those big word count goals don’t  work so well for nonfiction—even for memoir.    I have to do research, or at least fact checking, along the way.   But I hope I can harness some of that wonderful zest and energy I remember from last November.

My own personal Non-Novel Writing Month.  Or, to put it more positively:  National Nonfiction Writing Month.  NaNonWriMo.

Good luck to all you November writers, NaNo or Not.  

Or, as they'd say in Slovene, Na Zdravje!  Cheers!